Hyacinth in Black Air
by Believe4Ever
Summary: It hurt when he thought about it, but it was the only thing that was ever on his mind. He couldn't get him out of his mind, nor did he want to. But he wanted him to be there with him, not so distant that he could never quite grasp his hand.


**I can't say a lot about this story without giving away a lot of important details, but those of you who follow my stories will know that I take great pleasure in hurting characters—I hate to say it but I'm a Moffat at heart. Don't expect a happy ending in this story. There are also mentions of Reichenbach. Enjoy!**

* * *

_"Lay down, John," Sherlock murmured as he helped the exhausted soldier into his bed. "You're always dogging me about not exerting myself if I'm feeling ill and you went with me today even though you said you thought you had a cold."_

_"It's just a cold," John grumbled as he curled up into the fetal position. The sheets were cool and welcoming to his tired limbs._

_"Which can grow worse if you get tired. Now get some rest; I'll be in the kitchen."_

_"Don't blow anything up . . ."_

_"I'll try my best." Sherlock gave a small grin as he left the room._

_John drifted in and out of uncomfortable sleep, echoes of voices in his dreams ringing in his ears. Especially this one continuous beeping. It wouldn't be clear all the time but when it was deafening. It drew him away from reality and engulfed him, now more than ever. He remembered it happening a couple times before he'd met Sherlock but since then all signs of his PTSD, his depression, and that blasted beeping disappeared._

_Why was it starting up again now?_

Probably because I'm sick, _John thought groggily as he opened his eyes once more. The room was dim and blurry as though his eyes were filled with tears. He blinked again and again but felt no moisture._

_"Sherlock," he moaned, turning over. The beeping was growing more, drawing him away. "Sherlock . . .!"_

_His breaths were getting ragged and drawn out as his eyes slowly closed again. He felt himself drift away and he could've sworn he saw Sherlock enter the room, even with his eyelids shut._

()()()

John opened his eyes, being met with blinding white light. He squeezed them shut and then opened them once more, though slower and more cautiously. The light was still painful but not as bad as when he'd first opened them. He was again met with white, though this time he could make out that it was a ceiling he was staring at. He was lying down. Good, he understood what position he was in.

But there was the beeping again.

Slowly he turned his head, though it felt extremely stiff as though he hadn't moved from his position for an extremely long time. He found he was in a bare square room with bland walls and the curtains drawn over the window. Pale light was still shining in, though, so he assumed it was daytime.

He shifted his body weight, feeling tingles run through his limbs. Everything was stiff and sore. Where was he, exactly? He could barely remember what had happened.

"Hello?" he croaked; voice dry and raspy and seemed so _foreign _to him. It was deeper than he'd thought and much weaker. "Someone there?"

Still that steady beeping, making his ears want to bleed.

After squeezing his eyes shut again he managed to sit up, though it had taken a few tries. Everything felt off to him, like he'd forgotten something of great importance. And everything was so _bright! _Something was in his arm, on his finger . . .

John opened his eyes but only barely and saw a needle stuck into his arm, which was attached to an IV as well as a pulse oximeter on his index finger connected to a heart monitor. He found that it was this machine giving the bothersome beeps. Feeling confused he drew out the needle, wincing slightly at the pinch and removing the oximeter. The heart monitor it was connected to promptly began giving off loud alarms, which immediately made John regret taking the thing off. These alarms were much louder and hurt his head, giving him a migraine.

It was moments before a nurse and doctor came rushing in. The nurse stopped short with large eyes and the doctor looked equally as stunned, though it wasn't showing as easily on his features. John noted the wedding ring on the doctor's hand and the absence of one on the young nurse. The soldier blinked and tried to remember he wasn't Sherlock Holmes; he didn't need to figure out every bloody thing about a person.

"I don't believe it," the nurse murmured incredulously.

"Can you turn this thing off?" John gestured to the machine. Still looking star struck, she scurried over and turned off the alarms. "Thank you. Now can someone please explain where I am?"

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital," the doctor answered carefully, moving over slowly. He began examining John, quite suddenly, checking his eyes and ears and tongue and every other place doctors seem to want to check when you visit.

The soldier inched away. "Excuse me, but that's not enough information. Can I speak to Molly?"

The nurse glanced at the doctor and then back to him. "Molly . . .?"

"Yes, she does post-mortems."

Again the medical staff exchanged uncertain glances.

"Contact his sister," the doctor ordered. The nurse nodded and hurried out of the room. The doctor kept staring hard at him.

"Again, please explain what's going on?" John was starting to feel annoyed that they were withholding information from him. "Why am I here, plugged to machines and wearing this?" He looked down at the hospital gown he was wearing. He never remembered being admitted in.

The doctor still looked hesitant but finally answered, "You've been in a coma."

John blinked and almost laughed. "What?"

"For quite some time," he admitted.

John still didn't quite believe it, but decided to go along. "For . . . how long?"

"I really think your sister should be the one to explain—"

"For _how long?_"

The doctor looked down at the ground, almost as if he pitied John. "A little more than three years."

"What?" John actually gave an audible laugh this time. "You've got to be joking."

He shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry you have to find out so suddenly like this—"

"What year is it, then?"

Again, the doctor hesitated before replying, "2013." Giving a curt nod, he left to help the nurse. John stared at him as he left, the new information sinking in.

_2013?_

How? How could he have been asleep, in a coma, since 2010? Wasn't he in Afghanistan at the beginning of that year? Yes, then he had been admitted home and met Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he murmured suddenly. His skin prickled. If all of this really was true, then did that mean Sherlock was—?

_No! _he shouted in his mind. He simply refused to believe such things. Sherlock was real and he was probably at home, working on some experiment. He'd been waiting for John to wake up, surely. There must have been some mistake that the doctors had made. If anything it'd been a month or so, right? Even that seemed like a stretch.

John shook his head and slowly shifted his legs over so they were hanging off the edge of the mattress. Slowly and stiffly he pushed himself to standing. For a moment he swayed on his feet and felt a slight surge of lightheadedness. Still he tried to ignore it and began walking toward the door. No, more like stumbling drunkenly.

The soldier managed to make it to nearly the end of the hallway before a nurse spotted him. She tried to get him back into his bed but he kept trying to fight her.

"Please, just wait for you sister to come!" the nurse begged, trying to get him to sit down.

"I don't need her!" he shouted. "I need to see my flat mate . . ."

"Sir, please—!"

John suddenly pushed her against the wall, arm across her throat but not putting any weight on it. She gave a slight strangled gasp, eyes wide in fright. He blinked, realizing what exactly he was doing. Was he honestly threatening a _nurse?_

"I-I'm sorry, I—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the cracked voice of a female shrieked from the doorway. John looked over to see his sister, Harriet, standing there looking mortified. John immediately backed away, putting his hands up. The nurse still looked terrified and quickly left the room.

His sister stormed over and clamped her hands on his shoulders. His eyes scanned her quickly, noting that her face had grown broader since he last remembered her. Her brown hair had grown as well and now ended just past her shoulders. Her wardrobe was as plain as usual but he didn't smell any alcohol on her breath like he'd always remembered, which was good . . .

"I haven't seen you awake for three years and I'm greeted with you nearly strangling a nurse?!" she shouted though they were inches away from each others' faces.

"It was a reaction," he mumbled.

"From where? Where did you learn that?!"

"Sherlock."

"What?" Her eyes narrowed and she looked confused.

"Harry, I don't time for this."

"Time for—what?!" She shook her head. "I'm getting you admitted as soon as the doctors will allow and as long as everything is okay with your body I'll be able to get you out of here. God you've had me worried sick!"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"What?"

John rolled his eyes. He forgot how clueless his sister could be, never understanding. "Your mobile phone. Can I use it?"

"What for?"

"I have to call someone. Just give it here Harry."

Harriet still looked very hesitant but she finally reached into her pocket and handed it to him. He took it and noticed with almost abrupt realization that it was the phone that she had given him before, when he'd gotten back to London.

_Did I? No, of course I did._

He shook the thought from his mind and unlocked the phone. He began to put in a phone number and then hesitated. He was blanking on the number. Completely forgotten.

"Erm, never mind," he mumbled, giving it back to her. "I'll call later."

"John, please sit down," Harriet murmured as she pocketed the mobile. He nodded and shakily sat down. Why was he even questioning this? How could he _possibly _question if Sherlock Holmes, his flat mate, his _best friend _was real?

()()()

John walked briskly out of the hospital, dressed in fresh clothes supplied by Harriet, and walked up to the street. He held out a hand to hail down a taxi.

"Where are you off to?" Harry demanded, hurrying after him. "I told you I'm taking you home."

"Yes, that's where I'm off to." A taxi pulled up and he got in. "Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" Harriet got in next to him. "Why—"

"Because Harry!" John practically shouted. He was getting tired of his sister second guessing him. He looked at the driver. "Go on."

His sister stayed silent for the rest of the ride, occasionally glancing at him but John kept his eyes trained on the world outside of the cab. It seemed like he was looking at London for the first time in an eternity. Everything seemed a lot _different. _There were different fashion trends than he remembered, some new buildings, other shops were made into different kinds of shops. Very little seemed to be how he remembered.

The taxi eventually made it to Baker Street and John hopped out, paying the driver quickly and rushing down the street, checking each flat number. Harriet ran after him, shouting to him to take it easy, but he didn't mind her.

John found 221B and his stomach made a little tumble, for the door didn't look like what it did before. And there was no Speedy's shop next door either.

"It was here," he breathed, looking from the door to 221B to the door of 221D.

"What was?" Harry asked, exhausted.

"Speedy's Café."

"John, you've passed here several times before you went to Afghanistan. There's never been a café. What are we even doing here?"

He stepped up to the door numbly and knocked loudly. For a moment everything was suspended and his heart had stopped, just waiting, knowing, yet still _hoping _that Sherlock would be the person to open the door.

Instead it was some unknown woman.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked immediately, not bothering for pleasantries.

"Excuse me?" The woman was rather pretty. She had delicate features, pleasant blue eyes, and a darker shade of blonde hair. John took it all in but didn't think much else about it; the fear clawing at his throat was enough to fog his mind for the time being.

"Sherlock Holmes. The man who lives in this flat." He gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "You know what? Never mind. Can I just speak to Mrs. Hudson?"

"Who . . .?" The woman seemed to be getting extremely confused.

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

"My land_lord _is a man named Jeremy Brascall."

"Who?" John felt anxiety starting to bloom inside of him and a familiar tremor bolted through his hand, causing the limb to shake.

"John." Harriet grabbed his arm and tried to drag him back. "John, stop it!"

"Where's Sherlock?!" he shouted at the woman. "Where is he?!"

"I-I'm sorry," the woman murmured, becoming frightened by his hysteria. "I don't know who you're talking about . . ."

"Pardon us for bothering you!" Harriet called as she tried to drag her brother down the street. John still fought against her, trying to run into 221B. The woman shakily closed the door.

"Where is he?!" the soldier shrieked, turning to Harriet with a crazed look in his eyes.

"Who?!" she shouted back. "This Sherlock fellow?"

"Yes!"

"What kind of bloody name is that?"

His fingers curled into fists and he fought the urge to attack his sister the way he'd attacked the nurse. His patience had plummeted after so many years living with the psychopath. He could barely stand to explain himself. "Sherlock Holmes. My flat mate that I've lived with for a year and half."

Harriet stared at him with astonishment and horror. "John. You've been in a _coma _for three years. As far as I know, 'Sherlock Holmes' doesn't exist."

John felt his stomach drop. His face drain. Whatever the stereotypical 'shock symptoms' would be. What he did know was that his knees didn't buckle like they usually did. His hand wasn't shaking. He was just _standing there._

"You're wrong," he breathed. "You've got to be wrong . . ."

She gave a frustrated sigh and took out her phone. A moment later she held up her phone to show that she'd done an internet search for 'Sherlock Holmes'.

"No results," she muttered, stating what was on the screen. "Doesn't. Exist. He was a _dream _John!"

He stared at the screen, lips slightly parted and utter shock spread over his features. He felt numb. It just _couldn't be happening. _Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only consulting detective . . . not real? But _how?_

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he whispered, voice shaky. "Is he real? Mrs. Hudson? _Molly?_"

Harriet gave a small sigh and dropped the mobile. "John, please; stay focused. Don't go . . . out on me."

His eyes slowly brought up to hers. "What happened, exactly? How was I . . . How did I get into a coma?"

"Afghanistan," she whispered. "Shot in Afghanistan. Shock to the body. Sent you into a coma during transport to a better hospital. They sent you back to London soon after."

John's gaze dropped down to his shoes and he strained to remember. He remembered having those awful dreams about Afghanistan back before he met Sherlock. Sherlock. No, beforehand, when he could barely afford that miserable flat he'd have those dreams. His buddies screaming out to him, the bangs of gunfire, and the pain, oh the horrific pain that spread through his shoulder . . .

"It was a dream . . .?" John whispered, feeling his eyes start to burn with nonexistent tears wanting to fill up.

"Yes." Harriet wrapped her arms around him and he didn't move. His hand flexed and he didn't find the cane he'd always remembered having. He thought back to when Sherlock had cured that for him with chasing after the taxi.

Sherlock.

He had to be real.

()()()

What's-her-name Thompson. He couldn't believe that he actually missed having her as his therapist. She had been awful at her job, but he could tell that she actually cared. Perhaps that was because deep inside his mind he felt like he needed someone to try and make sense of the world that his dreams had invented during his state. He promptly shook his head. He wasn't going to read into this.

"John."

The ex-soldier looked over from the window to face his new therapist. The therapist was an elderly man with a drooping face and a fat nose. His spectacles were thin and sat just barely sat on the bridge of his nose. Even his hair was thinning and added to him looking as old as he probably was. He sat hunched over his notepad and stared intently at John.

"What?" John mumbled.

"You haven't said two words since you came in, half an hour ago. You've only been studying me and looking out the window like it was the first time you looked at London."

He didn't say anything and looked back out the window. Everything looked so dreary and dull. When he was with Sherlock everything was bright and interesting and everything stood out to him. Even when it was cloudy it was never hazy or dark, as though the sun purposefully shone bright just for him.

"John, I know this is frightening for you, but you must at least _try _to speak of it."

"Try _what?_" he snapped, looking back. "Talking about how my best friend doesn't even exist? Talk about how my sister thought I was going insane with thinking he was real and got me a therapist?" He hunched forward, giving the old man a hard, deathly glare. "I don't like you. I didn't like the therapist I had in my 'dreams' either. Her name was Thompson. Never bothered to learn her first name or at least I didn't care enough to remember. But it was her that got me to meet Sherlock and got through losing him." He took a sharp intake of breath and looked away.

The therapist licked his lips and jotted down a few notes. John's eyes fluttered toward the paper but found that the man held the notepad in a way that he couldn't read the handwriting. Anger flared inside of him and he looked back at the window.

"Tell me about . . . Shamrock?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted, glaring at him again.

"Yes, yes. Sherlock, I'm sorry." He scribbled something out and rewrote it on his paper. "Tell me about him."

"He was a bastard."

"Oh?"

"That's what a lot of people said."

"But you don't agree?"

"Of course I do. He was selfish, arrogant, narcissistic _bastard _. . ." He sighed. "But he was my best friend and he was one of the best people you could meet."

There was silence for a moment before the old man said meekly, "Continue . . .?"

John licked his lips. "He could figure out everything about you with a single look."

"How would he do that?"

"He would pick up on little details about you and figure out everything based on that. I started to learn from him . . ."

"Care to demonstrate?"

John looked over with surprise. "What?"

"John, Sherlock was in your head. You _are _him. If those deduction abilities were true then you should be able to figure me out. However in your mind you probably shaped everyone around you and 'Sherlock' so that Sherlock's deductions would be utterly correct. He'd never figured any of it out; you just molded everyone to fit his description."

The soldier frowned and turned so he was fully facing the therapist for the first time since he came. "He's real."

"And so are his abilities?"

"Yes."

"Then prove it."

John opened his mouth and hesitated. "I'm not as good. I was still learning."

"Fine. Try."

The ex-medic nodded slowly and looked over the man once more, trying to drink in every detail. He wanted to prove just how real Sherlock was—is.

"You've been married for at least twenty years," John started. "A kind woman, who's a good cook. You don't honestly need those glasses; they're just for show. However you really are serious about your work and you honestly want to help those that come to you, though you don't like being a therapist."

A minute of silence settled between them before the old man stated, "Amazing." John started to smile but the therapist interrupted with, "Amazing you would come to such ridiculous conclusions." His smile melted away.

"What was I wrong about?" John asked bluntly.

"Firstly, I've only been married seven years. My previous wife passed away three years before I remarried. Next, the woman I'm married to now is terrible at cooking. I can't trust her anywhere near a stove. I have to cook for us. And I do need these glasses, but only for reading so I keep them away from my immediate vision." He thought for a moment. "You only got the part about my being serious about my work but not enjoying it correct. How did you know I didn't like being a therapist?"

John chuckled. "No therapist likes their job."

The old man finally cracked a smile. "Some do." He wrote down a couple more notes and looked at his watch. "We're out of time, I'm afraid. But we've gotten to know each other a little more."

"Yes." John stood and started heading toward the door.

"I hope this has proved something, John."

He looked back over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"This 'Sherlock Holmes' never taught you anything."

()()()

Harriet's face was blushing from anger. "John there can't be someone who can tell everything about a person just from their appearance!" Her voice was loud and it was a wonder her neighbors never complained about the noise. They currently sat in her flat and she was stooped over the back end of the couch, facing her brother who was in a chair opposite.

"Don't you dare." He glared at her and pointed accusingly. "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't say he wasn't—wasn't real. He _is _real. Somewhere."

"John you were in a _coma!_"

"I couldn't just _dream him up._" John glared sharply. "Do you honestly believe someone like him could just be something from the imagination?"

"Yes, I do, and you need to get a hold of that fact."

"People dream with faces they've seen before in their life so I must have seen Sherlock at least once before in my lifetime that means he truly is alive, _do you understand?_"

John blinked, having realized the speed of which he had just talked, the fact that he'd said it all in one run-on sentence, and the language he'd used. _He'd sounded like Sherlock._

"John." She let out a defeated sigh and hung her head. "I understand this is hard for you, but it's been a couple of weeks. You still stay with me and the only time you go outside is when I make you go to your therapy session. You keep calling that fake number and complain that it isn't in service, and that's because it's _no one's phone number!_" She looked up at him wearily. "I want you to be happy, John. I want you to get a job, move out and live on your own, find a nice girl! You can't keep sticking with your fantasies hoping that they'll come true one day. They won't."

"Sherlock Holmes isn't a fantasy."

"Quit being such a bigot!" Her voice had risen again and her hands gripped the cushions of the sofa. "Get it through your head, John! He doesn't exist! You have to understand that; please!"

John simply glared.

She gave another sigh. "Fine. I'm going out with Clara."

He perked up for a moment. "Didn't you two divorce?"

She looked alarmed. "Divorced . . .? John, we never even married!" She shook her head. "Fantasies, John. Fantasies." With that, she grabbed her purse and left the flat.

It was silent and John simply sat there for several minutes, drinking in the rare silence he hadn't been able to get since he'd woken up. Even beforehand, since he'd been with Sherlock. The soldier closed his eyes.

It was happening once again. Sherlock Holmes: the "fake" genius. But now he truly never _existed. _But that couldn't be possible. He couldn't have dreamed up someone like Sherlock Holmes. No one could've. He just had that personality that couldn't be dreamed up. It was something that was molded and shaped and stretched. And surely John couldn't have thought up those farfetched explanations for how he'd come to conclusions.

_"I'm a fake."_

"No you're not!" John shouted, hands going to his head. "You exist!"

_"I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson—and Molly."_

"They aren't real!" His voice caught in his throat and he nearly choked on the words. "No . . . No, they're real too. Somewhere. I just haven't found them yet . . ." He blinked and his eyes were starting to burn again. "You must be real. Somewhere. You have—have to be." His words were starting to stutter and he slowly released his head.

The man stood and began pacing anxiously. He felt like he had bottled up energy that he hadn't been able to get rid of. No matter how much he walked, though, he couldn't get rid of it. Without a second thought he left the flat.

He was still fuzzy about where in London Harriet lived, but he had a vague idea. After a long bit of walking he found Angelo's. At least that restaurant was real. However he'd seen the owner—not the same Angelo he'd met with Sherlock. Giving another shake of his head he began to run. Somehow the route that he and Sherlock had taken that first night to catch the cabbie had burned into his mind. He bolted down alleys, rounded corners, darted in and out of buildings and trailed up stairs. Soon he was on the rooftops, running and jumping, narrowly missing falling to his death. He gave what probably sounded like a maniacal laugh as he slowed to where they'd finally caught up to it.

John gave a couple glances around. Some people had looked at him and continued walking quickly, most likely suspecting him to be a madman, but he didn't mind as much.

"Good run," he wheezed as he breathed heavily. He turned, half expecting to see Sherlock's tired smirk, but found nothing but empty air. His gleeful air disappeared and was replaced with a heavy weight around him. "Oh . . ."

John gave a cough and slowly began retracing his steps, heading back to Harriet's flat, all the while chanting in his head _He's out there. He _has _to be out there._

()()()

"John."

The soldier opened his eyes and looked over to find Sherlock peering into the doorway.

"John, why are you passed out on the couch like that?"

The ex-medic bolted straight up, eyes wide. He looked around to find that he was back in 221B. Relief flooded him and a wide grin was stamped onto his face. It was only a dream!

"Are you alright?" Sherlock frowned and crossed over to him. John gave a loud laugh.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine!" John ran his fingers through his hair for a moment, still grinning. "Just had the strangest dream, though . . ."

"Really? What was it about?" The flat mate shed off his coat and hung it on the rack, looking back toward John.

"It was where . . . you weren't real. None of you were. You, or Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson . . ." He let out another laugh. "It was utterly ridiculous, I'll tell you that."

"We weren't real?" John nodded. "Interesting . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, the answer is quite simple, John." He took a seat next to John and looked straight at him, those deep fluorescent eyes bearing into him. "It's true."

"W-What?"

"It's true, John. Open your eyes."

The soldier's eyes widened and he started shaking his head. "No! No, Sherlock, _this _is real. _THIS _IS RE—"

John's eyes sprung open and he shot up in bed, the words strangling in his throat. He looked around to find that he was back in the room he was occupying in Harriet's flat. He sucked in a breath and held it, fighting the confliction tumbling around in his stomach. The confusion, the anger, and damn _sadness_.

"Just a dream," he growled. "Just a dream."

()()()

"I got a job," John announced as he walked in. It was roughly a week after his strange dream. He still hadn't told his sister about it.

Harriet looked up from her book, surprised. "You did?" She gave a smile.

He nodded. "At the clinic." Silently he added _Sarah doesn't work there._

"I'm so proud of you!" She stood and walked over, giving him a hug. He didn't react and simply stared at the wall across from him. He didn't _want _a job. But he did want to get away from his sister and the only way to do that was to get a job so he could pay his bills. If there was one thing that his coma dream had been correct about it was that an army pension didn't give enough for a flat on its own.

()()()

"Say 'aaah'," John instructed kindly. The six-year-old girl opened her mouth, reciting the sound he'd told her to. Carefully he pressed a Popsicle stick against her tongue and peered down throat. After a moment he withdrew the wood and she smacked her tongue, face souring from the taste. "I know; it tastes awful, doesn't it?"

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, nodding. John gave a faint smile and wrote down a couple things.

"Well you seem to be in perfect health," he told her, then glancing at her mother who stood a few feet away from the examination. "Your mother does a good job in taking care of you."

"So she isn't sick?" the mother clarified worriedly.

"If anything, it's just a sore throat. You don't have to worry about getting her tonsils removed or strep throat, or whatever else had you riled up." He forced himself to give another smile. "She's perfectly fine."

"Oh, good." The mother gave a relieved sigh and looked at her child. "You hear that, Molly? You're fine."

John's skin prickled at the name as the girl answered, "I _know. _You made me come."

"Molly, hmm?" John said, looking at the girl. Usually he didn't bother looking at the name and just thought of everyone that came through as any other patient. Someone nameless that needed help, just like on the battlefield. He glanced down and searched for the girl's name: _Molly Handen._

"Is there a problem with her name?" the mother asked.

"No, no of course not. It's just a very pretty name." He looked up. "You're free to go."

The girl jumped off the stool and walked over to her mother. She looked back and grinned wide. Her front tooth was missing. "Thanks Dr. Watson!"

John nodded and tried to give another smile. The two left the examination room and he let out a soft sigh, sitting in his chair. "Molly Hooper, where are you," he moaned, rubbing his head. For the past two weeks he'd searched online for anyone that even closely resembled Molly or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to look for anyone who didn't have the name 'Sherlock Holmes' so he'd left that alone.

Still, it pained him to come to the clinic everyday and be greeted by his boss who was _not _Sarah Sawyer but instead a perky woman named Betty Calone. It hurt that every other day he went by 221B and saw that woman dusting or reading by the window, and not Sherlock playing his violin. And it ripped him apart the time he'd walked into Scotland Yard to find that he didn't recognize any of those that worked there; there wasn't even Anderson or Donovan. By this time he would've been relieved to at least see one of them.

John's pager beeped and he looked at it. Another patient with a worried mother. He sighed and stood up, leaving the examination room. The halls were long and not as busy as one would expect, although considering it was simply a clinic, he supposed it wasn't that surprising. He arrived in the waiting lobby and was just about to call out the name of his next patient when his heart stopped.

It was only a quick glimpse but he would recognize it anywhere. A head of curly black hair, leaving the clinic. His clipboard dropped from his hand and clattered loudly against the linoleum floor.

"John! Are you alright?" Betty cried, hurrying over to him. John ignored her and started walking after the person that'd just left. "Where are you going? John!"

The soldier left the clinic and frantically searched the streets. He saw the head and took off after it.

_Sherlock. It has to be Sherlock. He must've pulled something, had to disappear for a case, just _something. _It has to be him. Sherlock. Sherlock!_

John reached for the man's arm. "Sherlo—"

The man turned, surprised and John stopped short. This man was Sherlock's height, had his haircut, but his eyes were a dark brown and his face was round. It wasn't lean with those broad cheekbones. His skin also actually looked like it'd seen the light of day, unlike John's flat mate.

"May I help you?" the man asked, sounding irritated. The voice didn't match either.

"S-Sorry," John breathed, disappointment spreading through his veins and making his reactions sluggish. "Wrong person . . ."

"Hmph." The man turned away and continued walking, leaving John standing there, defeated.

_Not Sherlock . . ._

John inhaled sharply. He couldn't go back to the clinic—not with the mood he was in. No, instead he continued walking until he found the pub that wasn't far from the new flat he'd gotten. He hadn't gone in recently, so no one knew who he was off the top of their heads, but he didn't mind so much. He sat on one of the stools and stared hard at the rows of beer glasses.

"Hey there Doc," the bartender joked as he came over. John barely registered that he was still wearing his coat. "What can I getcha?"

"Anything to drown my sorrows," John retorted sarcastically. "Beer."

The bartender nodded and poured him a glass, setting it in front of him. "You don't have to go back to the office, right? I don't want to send a doctor back drunk."

"No. I'm going home after this." He gulped it down, feeling the slight buzz of alcohol entering his system. He set down the empty glass and exhaled, feeling the bitterness of the drink on his breath. "Have anything stronger?"

The barkeep nodded and poured him a different drink. John didn't even question it and downed that as well. It tasted a bit sweeter with a sharp edge. As he set down the drink he felt his mind start to cloud. "More."

"If you're drinking to forget, would you mind paying now?" the bartender asked, half-joking but also serious. He didn't know how much John intended to drink.

The doctor sighed and took out his wallet. He set down a few notes. "As much as this will buy."

The bartender grinned and nodded, scooping up the cash. An hour later John had downed a couple more beers, a few shots of tequila and one margarita. He was definitely tipsy and the bartender told him to go home as he fumbled to get more pounds. John let out a sigh and mumbled in agreement, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. He eased off the stool and left, only barely stumbling.

It was another half hour before he finally made it back to his flat and that was only because he'd passed it over twice from being drunk. When he finally got inside he just laid down on the floor, not bothering to go to the couch. He stared at the ceiling and let his drunken mind swim.

"How did this happen?" John muttered to himself as he tried to count the cracks in the ceiling. "How did Sherlock become a dream? He has to be real. No one can create someone like that . . ." He shook his head slightly. "Moriarty's trick . . . has to be. Has to be his fault . . . always his fault . . ."

John eventually drifted into a dreamless sleep. The next morning he would have a bloody awful hangover.

()()()

John had finally learned his therapist's name: Dr. Ellery. He was back in Dr. Ellery's office, staring out the window like always and avoiding the old man's stare.

"Your sister is growing increasingly worried about you," Dr. Ellery commented.

"Is she?" John wasn't really paying attention and instead was watching this person down on the ground walk down the street.

"Yes. She said that you ran out of your job a few days ago and have been going to the pub several times, getting drunk, and passing out at home."

"What I do is my business." The person was a woman who was wearing an atrocious amount of pink. It reminded John of the Pink Lady from his and Sherlock's first case. He looked away from the window.

"It's not healthy behavior, John. You were doing well. What happened?"

"I was never doing well." He looked the old man in the eye and scowled. "The only thing that's been on my mind since I woke up was my life in my dreams. I want that life back. I want to see Sherlock again. I want to go on cases with him and help out people but instead I'm stuck here with a simple job at the clinic." He looked away and crossed his arms. "I hate it here. I want to go back."

"Don't say that John; of course you don't."

"Yes I do! You didn't live a separate life for three years. I met kind people, I was having fun with new people, and life wasn't dull. I went to Buckingham Palace for God's sake!" He gave a huff of annoyance. "No matter what anyone says that will be my 'real' life."

Dr. Ellery frowned and wrote some things down.

"I still like my old therapist better too."

The old man looked up. "Right . . . Thompson, was it?" John nodded. "Yes. You said you didn't like her, though. Why do you prefer her?"

"At least she listened and tried to understand. You just go with what you think is right." John shook his head. "And she made me start that bloody blog."

"A blog. Why don't you try to write one now?"

The soldier glared once more. "Because this time I know nothing interesting is going to happen to me. You can't use the advice of my old therapist which you say is made in my own my mind. Technically you're taking psychological advice from your own patient. That's considered a bit mad, hmm?"

The old man gave a soft snicker. "Yes, I suppose so."

John didn't answer and just looked back at the window. The lady in pink was gone now. The sky was cloudy and everything seemed very dark and dull. It was a day like this that Sherlock would be pacing around, dying to receive a case from the Yard.

Dr. Ellery gave a sigh at John's distantness. "You aren't going to see him again, John. He's a figment of your imagination. The only way you're going to see him again is in dreams, a coma, or death."

John didn't answer. He knew that the therapist was right, but that was no reason to agree with him. The old man checked his watch.

"We're out of time," he conceded. John immediately stood and walked out, not offering Dr. Ellery a second glance.

John was silent and kept his mind blank until he got back to his flat. He lay down on his couch and closed his eyes. Finally he let his mind work and thought back to Ellery's words. He hated seeing Sherlock in his dreams—as he'd been appearing every other night with similarities to the first dream—because it'd be an utter disappointment when he woke up again. He knew that no doctor in their right mind would put him into an induced coma simply because he missed his old life and it was near impossible to induce a coma to oneself. There of course only left the one answer.

John sighed and turned over, keeping his eyes shut. A part of him wanted to delete the thought from his entire mind and never think of it again but the other part, the part that longed to see all his old friends, let it linger until he drifted off into uncomfortable sleep.

()()()

John put down the prescription in front of the pharmacist. The pharmacist glanced up at him, a little surprised. "This is a large dosage for one person—"

"Just give it here," he demanded irritably. "I'm not taking it all at once."

The pharmacist nodded and came back fifteen minutes later with the pills. John gave a bitter thank you and left the shop. His hand kept curled around the bottle as he walked down the street.

It had been a couple days since his talk with Dr. Ellery and he'd finally decided on what he wanted to do. Harriet had been calling him but he rarely replied and when he did it was just to tell her he was busy with work or was about to go on a date, which, in fact, he never was. He had simply been at home, staring at the wall or sleeping through most of the day. He hadn't gone into work for the past several days and kept telling Betty that he was feeling very ill. Now he was determined to see Sherlock again, and if that meant forging a prescription for himself, then so be it.

John got to his flat and closed the door after him. He walked to his bedroom and sat down. For a moment he just stared at the bottle. Did he really want to do this? He remembered how he'd felt when Sherlock had faked his suicide. Did he honestly want to put Harriet through that? She had waited three years for him to wake up from some coma and even before then the only time she'd heard from him while in Afghanistan was when he occasionally wrote her letters.

But still, he couldn't stand this 'real' world he was in. He hated not having anything to do besides work the clinic. He found life so boring without Sherlock. No one interested him enough to date. He just kept remembering the women he'd dated in his 'dream'. He missed sweet Mrs. Hudson, caring Molly, determined Lestrade—hell he even missed the idiotic Anderson and Donovan. He craved the murders and mysteries and, above all, Sherlock. Even when he was a prat and his usual annoying self, he was the most interesting thing to ever happen to him—he was his best friend.

It was true that overdosing on the pills he'd gotten would most likely kill him before it sent him into a coma, but he didn't care. Even if there was the slightest chance of hearing Sherlock again and not waking suddenly from a dream, it was better than not ever seeing him again.

"I should write a note," he murmured. Cautiously he set down the bottle of pills and went to get a pen and paper, but his eyes never left the bottle as if he were afraid his only way of seeing Sherlock would disappear suddenly.

The soldier sat cross-legged on the mattress and began to write:

_Dear Harriet and anyone else,_

_I did this for me. Don't think any of you had anything to do with this. Don't do anything drastic because of this. I'm sorry but I have to do this. I miss him, Harry. I miss everyone. I know you think I've been doing better but I haven't. I'm sorry._

He didn't bother to sign it. He didn't need to sign it. People would know it was him that wrote it. His attention turned back to the bottle. Slowly he set down the note and picked up the pills instead. There was a slight buzz of power as he took a few of them out. On the bottle it said that the dosage was one pill every other day; it was very easy to overdose on this type of pill. It also read that it could cause hallucinations in those that don't require the medication—that was perfectly fine with John.

The soldier got a glass of water and returned back to the bed, fist clenching the pills. For a split second he hesitated but the moment Sherlock reentered his mind he knew that it was decided. One by one he ate them. One pill, gulp of water, second pill, gulp of water, third, fourth fifth . . . By that time he was starting to feel dizzy. He swallowed one more and then put the rest back in the bottle. He set down the near-empty glass of water and waited.

His vision fuzzed and everything around him seemed to be glowing. As his head started to feel light he slowly laid back, eyes rolling on their own. They finally stopped and rested on a dark figure in the corner. John didn't seem to have enough sense to be worried, but the figure slowly shifted and he found a familiar face.

"Sherlock," he whispered, grinning faintly.

"Hello, John," Sherlock answered, frowning slightly.

"I've missed seeing you . . . I might see you soon . . ."

"No, you won't, John."

"Why . . .?"

"I'm not _dead_. You're going to die because of this." The detective looked over at the pills with a twinge of sorrow showing on his features.

"I don't like living like this . . ."

"But living at all is better."

John closed his eyes for a moment, still smiling slightly. "It's good to see you . . . I've missed you . . ." He opened his eyes again to see that Sherlock was a little closer, right at the edge of the bed.

"You shouldn't have done this," Sherlock murmured, hand brushing against the bedcovers.

"But I did . . ." John held out his hand weakly. "Can you just . . . stay here? Until I'm . . .?"

Sherlock nodded and slowly sat down next to John. It was a moment later that he was lying next to the dying man. Their faces were close and John could swear he felt Sherlock's hot breath against his face. His eyes felt wet and he realized tears had suddenly appeared in his eyes. He didn't understand why; he felt happy, not sad. It was probably the medication.

"I can't force myself into a coma," John mumbled, forcing his eyes to focus on Sherlock's. "You don't appear when I'm drunk . . . I didn't know what else to do. It kills me seeing you in a dream and knowing you're not quite there . . ."

"You'll make everyone very sad."

"To hell with them . . . I want to be happy."

John slowly lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's hair. It was soft and the black locks twisted around his fingers. It felt so real, so close . . .

"This is a hallu—hulli—dream, right . . .?" John stammered with his words as he looked from the hair back to his flat mate's eyes. "You're so close . . . So real . . ."

Sherlock didn't answer an only stared expressionlessly at John.

Ringing started in John's ears and he could hear nothing besides it. He couldn't even hear his own breathing. All his energy had wasted away and he couldn't even hold up his hand. It fell limply onto Sherlock's cheek but it felt neither warm nor cold. Simply nothing—but still there. John's eyelids started to droop.

"I'll see you soon . . . the real you . . ." John whispered though he couldn't hear it. Sherlock said something but John only saw his lips move. "What . . .?"

Again Sherlock moved his lips and everything was fuzzy. His eyes slowly closed and the words finally pierced through the ringing just as he was slipping into the blackness.

_I am real to you._

* * *

**Reviews are greatly appreciated.**


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